


a taste so good (i'd die for it)

by RenderedReversed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Dark, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Horror, M/M, Starvation, Unhealthy Relationships, be, but on the bright side, gotta give the boy some love before u mind fuck him, its still got a lil bit of fluff, u might cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 10:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13702599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: Even in death, Voldemort gets the last laugh. A last horcrux, perhaps, who comes back through the very power that destroyed him:Love.





	a taste so good (i'd die for it)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Katsitting (Nekositting)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/gifts).



> This is a work of fiction containing **an extremely emotionally and psychologically abusive relationship**. Though there is no rape, there is **physical abuse** in the form of starvation. This is not a happy ending.
> 
>  **Please mind the tags** in case any of the aforementioned disturb you. This is your official warning for those of you who don't read tags, as horror is not my usual genre.

****The moon's a pretty little waxen thing by the time Tom comes home.

He's never gone for too long, always comes back around eventually, but today is Valentine's day. Harry was hoping he'd come home sooner, maybe have enough time to go on a date or something, but Tom does what he pleases.

And that's fact.

So instead, Harry's eating chocolates all by his lonesome, curled up with the softest blankets he can find in the little nook next to the window. He leaves the curtains drawn wide open. It’s the best view of the sky in the entire house—sitting here, it's like the only thing that's stopping him from flying off into the night is the sturdy glass panel. He imagines himself weightless, licks his lips and tastes the sweetness there, then leans back against the cushions, as if he could fall right through and land himself in Wonderland.

Wouldn't it be nice, he thinks, if he could escape into someone else's problems once in a while?

Tom slinks into the room with nary a sound. The only evidence of his arrival is the click of the door closing, and it sounds almost like he's saying sorry. Tom doesn't, though—oh, he can _say it_ , but the words themselves are always devoid of what makes an apology a true apology. Harry knows better than to fall for it.

He slips another chocolate into his mouth and lets it melt, ensconced in the soft shell made by the roof of his mouth and the thick muscle of his tongue.

"You're going to make yourself sick," Tom says, and Harry knows without even looking at him that he's eyeing the number of empty slots in the chocolate box.

"They're from Belgium," Harry says. "Ginny got them for me; a souvenir from her game."

"Is that so," Tom says, and pushes the chocolates off the end table with a wave of his hand. The plastic packaging crumples against the wood floor. The sweets themselves roll and scatter to the darkened corners of the room, much like mice fleeing before a very large, very hungry cat.

Harry breathes in through his nose, then breathes out. He looks up. "That," he says, "was completely unnecessary."

Tom leans down and kisses him anyway. Well, rather than a kiss, it's more like shoving his tongue down Harry's throat. When Harry finally manages to shove him off, Tom's already stolen the remaining chocolate right out of his mouth. It's unfair. Rude. _Predictable_.

"Get your own," says Harry, making a show of wiping his mouth.

He sees the corner of Tom's lips curl and gets the urge to bite it.

"Arse," he adds.

Tom hums. "No need to be crude, darling," he says, and this time when he leans down, he kisses Harry more properly.

His tongue tastes of blood and chocolate, from when Harry _did_ bite him moments ago. It isn't unlikeable, but Harry still makes a show of cringing and turning his head away. Tom pecks him once on the cheek just to mock him.

" _You're_ cleaning this up," he says, referring to the chocolates scattered on the ground.

Indulgently, as if this one act of kindness would give him permission for a much crueler, much more ruthless action later, Tom does. It takes less than a second to banish with magic, but it's the _act_ —the mocking obedience, the false submission—that matters. Harry burrows back into his blankets and doesn't come out again.

"Don't think you can just do as you please," he mumbles. "You're just—just a pigment of my imagination—"

"Figment," Tom corrects, amused. He smooths his hand over the place Harry's head should be. "And you should know better than I how thin the line is between dreams and reality."

"Bugger off," Harry says, haphazardly swiping in his general direction.

Tom laughs. As sweet as the chocolate, as dark as the blood Harry doesn't know is real or not.

"You know where to find me," he says.

"I don't."

Tom strokes his head again before he leaves. Harry feels like a quivering animal being comforted by their master, and that's when it's hardest—he thinks, yes, that's when it's hardest to let him go. Tom is soft, safety, pleasure: he takes and takes and takes, so Harry doesn't have to agonize over choosing what to give him in the first place. Tom wrenches his desires straight out of Harry's hands, and all Harry has to do is wait for his show of appreciation afterwards.

But a part of him still recognizes that it's _wrong_. That even though he wants, even though he's settled to carry the guilt of wanting for the rest of his life, it's wrong. No one should have this power over him.

But if Tom is just all in his head, is the danger real? Or is it as fake as Tom?

Harry shudders, reaches out from under the blankets, and grabs another piece of chocolate.

* * *

He's having the dinner of his life with the Weasleys when someone takes to mentioning it.

"You're…eating an awful lot, Harry," Hermione says, shooting a dubious look at Harry's plate. It's his third one, piled high with roast beef and gravy on a bed of broccoli and asparagus. There's an ear of corn sitting on a smaller plate next to him, half gnawed on.

Harry pauses, but before he can reply, Mrs. Weasley bustles back into the room with dessert.

"Let him eat!" she says. "Just look at him, he's all skin-and-bones! What _have_ you been eating these days, Harry? Air?"

Harry stops chewing only long enough to defend himself. "I've been eating," he argues. And he has; on good days, Tom cooks all the meals, serving Harry cuisines from all over the world. It's always delicious, precisely so Tom can take it away whenever he's feeling vindictive. He wants Harry to beg, he knows—wants Harry to please him, never make him angry in the first place.

(Harry's not going to fall for it.)

But it's alright; on good days, it's alright.

Ron lifts his head from his own plate and pointedly looks him up and down. "Sorry to say mate, but you really don't look like it."

"I just…haven't been getting much sleep lately, is all," Harry says. At their growing concern, he quickly adds, "I've just been so caught up in my project, time slips away from me, you know?"

Mrs. Weasley purses her lips. "Well…do remember to eat, dear. I'll start sending Pigwidgeon over with food if I have to."

"Oh, that's not necessary," Harry quickly says. Tom wouldn't like that. "I'll…come for dinner again if you'd have me?"

Mrs. Weasley nods once, sharp and approving. Her smile's warm. "Always. You're always welcome here, Harry."

It makes Harry feel ill.

He's about to start eating again—albeit at a slower pace—when Hermione stops him.

"You've...got a little something on your cheek there," she says, motioning to the spot on her own face. "A bit to the left—there. Oh, is that paint?"

Harry rubs a little harder, then looks down at his thumb. Indeed, there's a light smear of color there—just enough to indicate the presence of dried paint. He flushes; how clumsy of him. "I must've missed a spot," he mumbles to himself.

Mr. Weasley, who has been tucking in to his own plate, chuckles. "I say, what kind of project involves getting paint on your face?"

Harry ducks his head. "I must've got it on my hand and reached up to scratch my face or something…"

Mr. Weasley shakes his head, still chortling. The atmosphere lightens, and soon Harry finds himself the receiver of _everyone's_ amused laughter.

"I'm glad you found something you enjoy," Hermione says softly, nudging him. "You'll show us when you're done, right?"

Harry thinks about the portrait he's working on, sitting on an easel beneath a cover of white cloth in his studio. He thinks about how empty he was before, thinks about letting himself want, thinks about the ache of his wrist as he paints for hours on end, and even now his thumb tingles from holding his palette for so long.

Inevitably, he thinks of Tom.

"Yeah," he lies. "Yeah, I'll show you when I'm done."

* * *

The very next day, Harry goes into his studio, takes a seat, and is about to lift the covering off his canvas when he feels Tom's presence in the room.

As if the topic doesn't bother him at all, Tom says, "You went to go visit your friends, didn't you?"

"I can go out if I want to, Tom," says Harry without turning around. He rests his hands in his lap. "They invited me."

"Any other invitations I should know about?"

"No," Harry says, thinking of Ginny, thinking of her letter asking him to see her next game, thinking of the tickets he'd tucked beneath his bed. At least he has this, he thinks. At least he has Ginny, has Ron, has Hermione, has all his friends who send him post and check up on him and invite him places.

Not even a figment of his imagination can take _that_ away from him—Tom can't touch his reality. Harry knows— _won't let him_.

"Very well. No lunch," Tom says. It's not just a statement; it's an order. He strides forward, silent as a ghost, but Harry knows his every movement, even if he can't see him.

(He can feel a chilled breath against his neck.)

"Don’t cheat, Harry. _I'll know_."

Harry swallows. He squeezes his eyes shut, feels Tom's hands on his shoulders. They rub small circular motions there, comforting. Forgiving.

"Be good for me, darling," Tom whispers, "And I'll be good to you."

"You're—"

A finger covers his mouth. Tom hushes him, and Harry quiets. Not even his breath makes it past his lips.

"Let your mind heal, Harry," Tom says, "It's been hard on you, all these years."

Harry shudders. Unbidden, Voldemort's visage appears in his mind.

Tom brushes it away, running his fingers through his hair. He leans closer, whispers—

"Let,"

—Harry's shoulders ease; he can feel Tom's lips, brushing against the crown of his head. There's the thrumming of his heart, but it's softer now, turning sluggish under Tom's affection. He thinks, yes, he'll let himself want, here all alone—

 _"_ Yourself,"

—the finger holding him mute disappears. Harry breathes: in for two, out for two. In for four, out for four. In for ten—

"Rest," Tom finishes.

He opens his eyes. It's like a magic spell—not the real spells they learned in Hogwarts; the muggle sort, like when Aunt Petunia covered Dudley's eyes and told him to guess how many presents he'd get for his birthday, and when Dudley opened his eyes, he was always right. It's magic without what he knows now to be magic: things that not even his professors could explain, like a mother's love saving him from the darkest wizard of the century.

Tom is gone now, but the white cover is still there in front of him. His canvas, his paints, his studio—it's safe here, safer than Hogwarts has ever been. Kinder than Hogwarts has ever been.

Harry's mind is blissfully empty. He pulls off the cover and begins to paint.

The pieces of a Quidditch game ticket lay in shreds on the floor behind him.

* * *

Ginny sends him more letters. She's disappointed he wasn't able to make the game, but says she understands. He needs to rest and get better, not sit outside in the cold night air screaming his lungs out. She knows he'd cheer for her, she writes, but she wants him well and alive, not coughing and miserable.

He stares at her valediction for a long time, tracing the girlish swoop of her cursive letters as if they'd eventually come off the page and hug him. Maybe he'd be able to catch a whiff of her perfume, if he hoped—Ginny always smelled so good, even after Quidditch practice.

 _Love_ , he reads, repeating it in his mind as if he could engrave it there. _Love, Ginny. Love, Ginny. Love, Ginny…_

Harry swallows.

Yes—he is _loved_ ; the world outside is waiting for him. The Boy-Who-Lived can't stay a boy forever. He should go out, get a job—maybe get out of Britain and tour the world. Ginny would love to go with him during the offseason. Maybe they could go visit Charlie, enjoy a week in Romania…

Harry stops. He lifts his head and inhales. Something smells— _good_ ; delicious, actually. Bacon, eggs...something sweet, like cinnamon and sugar.

Someone is knocking at the bedroom door.

Harry's heart nearly leaps out of his chest. He stuffs Ginny's letter beneath his mattress—barely has the time to look newly risen when the doorknob turns and Tom walks in. He slips his hand under his pillow and grasps the handle of his wand.

"Breakfast is ready," he says. "Coming?"

Harry licks his lips. But—no, _no_. He won't fall for this; not again. He is _loved_. It's there on Ginny's letter, there in his friends' eyes, there in Mrs. Weasley's smile that makes him feel nauseous with guilt. He doesn't need Tom to make him feel like he's worth something, and he certainly doesn't need him to make him feel like he's not worth anything at all.

It's all in his head.

So, he raises his chin and says,

"You're not real."

Tom stares. Finally, pleasantly, he says, "This again, Harry? At this rate, breakfast will go cold. I made it just for you."

Harry clenches his fists. "You—you _didn't_. _I know you_. Never in a million years would Voldemort make something for _anyone._ You got it from—from a house-elf, or something, I don't know, but _you_ —I know _you_. And _you're_ — _not_ — _real_."

Tom cocks his head to the side like he doesn't understand. Then, he says, "But darling, aren't I real enough for you?"

At the same time as Tom steps forward, Harry pulls out his wand and points it at him. Perhaps the one saving grace of his mind is that he didn't give Tom a wand of his own. It's his one chance, he knows, to fight against him—the only weakness his mind allows Tom to have. Be wandless, he thinks, and then harder: _be wandless for me_.

Tom's expression darkens.

"So this is how it is? This is how you'll treat me? After everything I've done for you?"

Harry's wand arm shakes. Still, he says, "You've done nothing for me."

Tom steps forward again. "Really? All the nights I've stayed with you, all the meals I've made you, all the happiness, the peace, the _safety_ I've provided you? _That's_ nothing? You _thankless, wretched_ —"

Harry sees him reaching into his back pocket and feels his heart plummet to the bottom of his stomach. He doesn't think, only casts—

_"Expelliarmus!"_

Tom's face twists. His eyes flash blood red, more vivid still than the last sunset on earth. And for a moment, Harry thinks he's won. He's broken the illusion of Tom Riddle, declared dominion over the power of his own mind. He thinks, blood rushing, he's finally free.

Tom extends a hand and snatches the very light of the spell out of the air. It shudders in his fist, flashing once in defiance before Tom smothers the spark and it vanishes, just as the last of Harry's strength does.

"Be good for me, Harry," he says, and this time, his voice drips with the taint of a threat. "Or else _I_ won't be good to _you_."

His scar _aches_. It aches and aches and aches like the worst migraine he's ever experienced, and then worse still as it burns with all the fury of someone digging a knife into it and carving back along its path, scarring it anew. He thinks it is bleeding again, though he can scarcely tell as he falls to his knees and claws at it like a dying man.

If only the lightning bolt could manifest and strike him down; it'd be a quicker death than this, and far less painful, too.

And still, even as he rolls on the ground, scrabbling and bleeding in screams if not blood, he's still aware of Tom, like a vivid memory that only comes at the worst of times. Tom comes closer, and closer, and closer until Harry's sure he'll stab him, stab him like Harry stabbed his diary with that basilisk fang in his second year, stab him like Ron smashed Slytherin's locket and Neville beheaded Nagini with Gryffindor's sword, stab him with a stake through the heart, because he could. Because he can, and Harry won't be able to stop him.

But Tom doesn't do any of those things. He sits down on the floor right next to Harry's wailing, trembling form, and strokes his head like a master would a pet.

"Hush," Tom soothes, completely unbothered. "Darling, hush."

No, Harry wants to cry, no, he will not, how can he, why is he doing this? Why, why, why—it's too much, all too much. The cruelty, the kindness, it overwhelms him until he knows nothing but Tom. Tom's fault, Tom's forgiveness. Tom's anger, Tom's affection. There is no room for anything else in his reality, because in the beginning, hasn't there always been Tom?

He should fight this, but how? _How_?

"Must you?" Tom asks, soft. "You break my heart every time you try, darling."

Harry sobs, whines, twists. He butts his head against the palm of Tom's hand, and Tom hums and pets him still.

"Are you ready to be good?"

No, no, no—

Tom pins his jerking arms down, traps his legs against the floor. He kisses him then, feather-light against his cheek, and asks if Harry wants more.

Harry shakes his head no.

Tom kisses him again, this time on the forehead.

Harry thinks, no, no...harder and harder, it gets harder and harder to say no.

Finally, Tom says, "Don't you want me to feed you breakfast? I made it just for you."

...And quivering, Harry nods.

Yes, he thinks finally, please yes.

* * *

After that, Tom disappears for weeks.

Even so, Harry stays at home, docile. The bed is more and more appealing without Tom here, but it's just the bed—he forgets about the letter crumpled underneath the mattress, forgets even where his wand is.

(Hasn't seen it since he'd dropped it in the chaos, and hasn't gone looking for it either.)

Harry doesn't even wander into his studio anymore. He can't remember the last time he picked up his paintbrush, though he thinks about it constantly. Sometimes he dreams about sitting at his easel, stroking brush after delicate brush against the canvas. It'll be his masterpiece, he's sure—nothing else he makes will ever compare.

He dreams about blending colors, about soft lights and crescent moons. A gaze more tender than his heart allows, promising a reality less cruel than this: vowing love, devotion; sweeter things unaccomplished by the pile of corpses in the background.

Harry blinks up at the ceiling. He has the urge to see the sky.

It takes him longer than usual to wrap his blanket around him and stumble his way over to his nook—much longer, because he fumbles trying to keep a hold of anything these days. Even the blanket is too much for his hands, and he's forced to get creative and wrap himself up like a mummy in order to make the move.

He nearly collapses onto his seat, sinking into the cushions.

Outside, the moon is already in its waning crescent phase. Oddly enough, there's a pile of trash sitting in the windowsill, but Harry feels too tired to bother with it. He'll clean it later, maybe, when he finds his wand.

Harry settles back against the pillows and looks back up again. He moon-watches for an indeterminate amount of time, until his neck gets too tired from craning it and he's forced to turn away. His eyes slide shut, his breathing slows.

There's the scent of treacle tarts coming from the kitchen.

"I made your favorite for you, darling," Tom says, stepping into the room. "Won't you come and eat?"

Harry tries to greet him, but his eyelids are too heavy. The sound he makes is muffled and hoarse; when he coughs, it hurts, and comes from a place deep within his chest. He can't remember the last time he drank something.

Tom sighs softly. It's this sound that gets Harry to tilt his head up—he wants more than anything to keep Tom happy with him. He left for so long this time, Harry's scared he'll never come back if he upsets him again. It'd be the worst, he thinks, if Harry disappoints him.

"Tired," he croaks, "'m sorry..."

Tom walks towards him. This time, Harry can hear the sound of his steps against the wood floor— _thu-thud, thu-thud, thu-thud._ It's almost in time with his heart.

Something about it makes him open his eyes. Tom stands before him, looking down exactly as he'd painted.

"N—n," he tries to say, "n—n..."

"Hush, darling," Tom says.

Harry shakes his head. This is important, he knows.

"N—not," he coughs, "You're not real."

For a second, Harry thinks he'll be angry with him. Instead, Tom doesn't even look like he'd heard him.

Then, Tom smiles. "Harry, don't you know?" he says, "I _am_ your reality."

Everything is so, so numb.

"You're tired," Tom says, "I understand. Don't worry about the treacle tarts; it wouldn't be good if you choked on them."

"How long?"

Tom doesn't answer, stroking his sunken, pale cheeks instead. Harry doesn't lean into the touch, but neither does he pull away.

"Are you thirsty, love?" asks Tom softly. "Here, I've a drink for you."

Harry looks down. The goblet that Tom has offered him is a gilded, antiquated thing. He's seen it before. The crest of a badger is drawn large on the front.

"Will I have to see him again?" Harry asks. He takes the cup but doesn't drink from it yet. Beside Tom's, his wrists look tiny, and his fingers like bone.

Tom leans down close. For a moment, Harry thinks he might kiss him, but then he directs his gaze down to the cup, and Harry follows it down—down, down into the wine, down into the red eyes, slit nose, sunken eyeholes and down into the inhuman, serpentine face of Lord Voldemort.

In his reflection, Voldemort smirks.

Harry looks up. Tom is smiling.

"Aren't you already, darling?" he asks, and yanks Harry's head back by his hair as he forces the contents of the cup down Harry's throat.

* * *

They should've done this a long time ago.

That's all Hermione can think of as she makes her way to Harry's house, matched in stride with an equally concerned Ron.

They should've done this a long time ago, when Harry first stopped replying to their letters. Their owls had all come back empty-handed; she assumed he'd read them, and just didn't want to reply.

But perhaps not. Perhaps not.

Ron squeezes her hand. Hermione lifts her wand and unlocks the door.

The house is cold inside, and so is Harry's room.

They don't even see him at first; everything is such a mess, and it reeks something horrid inside. The first thing she sees is a puddle of viscous red fluid spread across the floor, and Hermione's heart stops.

"It's wine," Ron says; croaks, more like. "It's—it's just wine—"

They see him then, sprawled across the cushioned nook below the window, right above where the center of the puddle is. His arm hangs over the edge, unnaturally still, and his head is bent at an unnatural angle.

"Harry," Hermione whispers, and flings herself over. She doesn't care about the wine staining her shoes, doesn't care about anything except—

Ron's arms catch her around her waist.

"Hermione, no!"

"Let me go, Ron!" she cries, fighting, beating, scrabbling at his grip. "Let me go! That's Harry!"

"Hermione—" and she's being unfair; she knows it, too—Ron is hurting as much as she is. His voice quivers, the squeeze of his arms is not just to restrain her, "— _Hermione_ , no—"

Hermione drops, like her puppet master had snipped all her strings. His arm looked so small—had he eaten anything since they'd last seen him? He hadn't said anything at all, and if he was so hungry then, why didn't he— _why couldn't he have just—_

She could feel Ron crying into her hair.

"—Let me," she begs him, " _let me go_."

Ron shakes his head. "You don't want to see it."

"Let me see _him_ , please," she whispers. "Let—let me—"

He's still shaking his head as he supports them both, walks them over to where Harry took his last breath.

Hermione feels like she's on the verge of taking her last, too. Her chest is too tight; it's like her windpipe's stuffed with cotton, and every time she tries to breathe it's shorter than the last.

"He's gone," Ron says, voice cracking on the last word. "Harry's—"

She wants to leave, but she can't. It's so loud, too loud, like her ears will burst from just _too much_. Her feet are glued to the spot but someone's wailing—her cheeks are sticky with salt and her eyes ache from crying but _someone is wailing_ , and she thinks maybe Voldemort's back, maybe Bellatrix is back, because the only time she's heard a cry this loud and weeping is from someone under the Cruciatus.

It's her.

Ron holds her and Hermione turns into him, trying to gag herself on his shirt because the only thing she knows is that Harry is dead and she's got to be quiet. Harry is dead and she's got to be quiet—Harry is dead—

—And the Death Eaters will find them if they're not quiet.

She doesn't know how long they weep over each other, just that they do and she can't imagine herself ever _not_ crying again. Ron has her head buried in his chest, doesn't want her to see how bad he looks, too.

The pressure alleviates, replaced with an entirely emotional pressure when she hears the panic in his voice.

"—Hermione, Hermione, _what's that_?"

She looks.

There, nestled against the foot of the bed, is a golden cup, splattered with wine. Its shape looks horrifyingly, terrifyingly familiar, and she can still see it clear as day somewhere else: clean, bright and shiny, sitting in a vault of equally golden things.

Hermione glances in the direction of Harry's body again, then wrenches her gaze away. All the tears have been frightened out of her—if it is what she thinks it is, then—

She grips her wand, clenches it until even the smooth wood digs into her skin.

—Then there's work to do, and she'll gut Voldemort herself if she has to.

Ron pushes her behind him. He licks his lips and says, "I'll go first. Watch my back."

They move in tandem.

Hufflepuff's Cup is just as they remembered it, but it's lifeless now. No evil aura emanates from it; the horcrux is long gone.

Ron probes it with the tip of his wand. It rolls over, but otherwise, there's no reaction.

They share a look. Hermione doesn't want to leave Harry's body alone here—he's been alone long enough, she thinks, and her heart aches again at the thought—but they need to check the rest of the house. Maybe there'll be more clues.

Maybe Harry's _left them_ more clues.

The rest of the house is despairingly empty—literally. Even the kitchen pantry is completely clean, like it had been cleared out to be sold. No dishes in the sink, no trash in the bin, no anything.

Hermione wishes she'd tried visiting sooner.

The last room they check is Harry's studio. This, at least, feels a little lived in. In the center of the room is a canvas sitting on an easel, covered by a white piece of cloth.

Ron raises his wand. Hermione gives him a shaky nod and raises her own.

In unison, they levitate the cloth off the painting, keeping a distance in case of any curses. But the cloth comes off easy-as-you-please, and nothing happens.

They circle around. There aren't any other canvases in the room, so this has to be Harry's project. She's curious, and heartbroken, and wonders if it's right to invade his privacy like this—he'd seemed so enamored with it when they spoke, however brief the conversation was.

But nothing could've prepared them for what they saw—for there, sitting poised in the center of the completed portrait, Helga Hufflepuff's cup balanced in his hands, is none other than the smiling face of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

A chill runs down her spine.

"Looking for something?"

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt fill for the Tomarry/Harrymort discord's daily_prophet_submissions!
> 
> " **Prompt: 01-25-18 Hufflepuff's Cup Horcrux** " - Katsitting
> 
> As well as a prompt fill, I'd like to dedicate this oneshot to Lena (aka Katsitting) <3\. She's amazing!!! A generally new writer to the harrymort/tomarry fandom (think a year?? wow!! it's already been a year!), she's already written 20+ *super high quality* dark fics! 
> 
> On the discord server, Lena is one of our two ~*~*~Slytherin prefects~*~*~. She's always been the voice of reason, and is one of the most supportive people I know!!!! Whenever anyone feels down or unsure about themselves, Lena always knows what to say. Not only is she super inspiring with how much she writes, she's incredibly generous, doing prompt fills on her tumblr that can go on to upwards 10k words if it fits her fancy!
> 
> I feel very blessed to have Lena in our fandom and in our discord server <3\. I know she's been incredibly busy lately, so I wanted to give her something in the spirit of Valentines Day.
> 
> A belated Happy Valentines to you, Lena!! <3 <3 <3 I hope I was able to make you smile.
> 
> GO CHECK HER OUT IF YOU HAVEN'T YET!!!


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